


audi, vide, tace

by ecotone



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Eye!Rosie, Gen, MAG 158 spoilers, aka the fic where she knows more than anyone else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21712828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecotone/pseuds/ecotone
Summary: Rosie has seen much through the years.She has Seen even more.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73





	audi, vide, tace

Rosie gets the job the week after she graduates school and five months before James Wright dies. 

She hadn’t _expected_ to get the job, not really. The form had made it clear that those with secretarial experience were preferred, and all she’d had on her resume were a few part-time tutoring jobs and a then-month-long stint at a grocery store she’d landed for a summer job. Still, she was excited, even if she'd had to avoid a fairly sizeable spider that had made its home in the mailbox when she fished the congratulations letter out. 

She tells her mother, and then she walks to the grocery store to formally quit. Her now-former boss goes red in the face when she tells him, but she knows about the tax fraud, so she just smiles when he calls her a flake. 

The Institute expects her the next morning, so she wakes up at seven and is standing in Wright’s office at nine AM sharp. 

“Rosalind Byrne,” she says, sticking out her hand, smiling— her manager at the grocery store, who’d long gone mad with his miniscule amount of power, had told her _Rosie_ was childish. She didn’t believe him, not really, but James Wright doesn’t look like he appreciates childishness, and she doesn’t want to make the wrong impression. 

Wright shakes her hand, and he Looks at her, and she doesn’t know what the difference between looking and Looking is yet but she knows they’re different, somehow. His eyes are pale, almost white, and his pupils are blown wider than they should be, with the amount of summer sunlight coming in past the curtains. She thinks all of these things, but they’re in the background, barely noticed. The thought she thinks the loudest, the thought closest to the surface, is just: _I expected his hands to be colder._

“James Wright,” he says, and blinks, and nods, apparently satisfied. He withdraws back behind his desk and says, “You’re to be at the front desk you passed on the way here. I asked one of the assistants to stay nearby, answer any questions you may have.” 

She already has a million, but they haven’t taken a shape she can recognize yet, aren’t things she can ask. So instead she smiles again, dips her head, and goes to sit at the front desk. She’ll figure things out, she knows. Or maybe she already Knows. 

— 

She’s been there for a month and a half when one of the other secretaries, Alice, asks her to go down to the Business Office and _see if you can deal with it._

“Deal with what?” She asks, even as she’s headed downstairs. She’s not been here long, but it’s already been long enough that she’s seen some strange things. They never ask her to deal with the strange things, though, so presumably there’s just something mundane that none of the others can deal with. 

She’s right, of course. One of the filing clerks has hotboxed the storage closet— again, apparently— and she’s the only staff member that hasn’t asked him to stop. Apparently the others are hoping her attempt will stick. She knocks on the closet door, because she tries to be polite, and then walks in. 

The clerk is sitting on a swivel chair in the corner, joint in one hand and face leaning against his other arm, and he smiles when he sees her. 

“You’re Rosalind, right?” He asks, voice light. “The new secretary, front desk. Can I call you Rosie? You look like a Rosie.” 

She nods, smiles despite herself. The others all call her Rosie anyway, everyone but Wright, and she likes it more than Rosalind. The stoned filing clerk hiding away in a smoke-filled storage closet is the first to ask, though. 

“Elias,” she says, because during her first week here she memorized the names of all the staff. And their birthdays. “Alice asked me to come down here.” She tilts her head; she’s heard stories about the office pothead before. “I’m surprised Wright hasn’t fired you.” 

“He won’t,” he says, and it’s a little bitter, but before Rosie can ask there’s a knock at the door. 

“Rosie,” Alice calls, “Wright asked for you to come by his office, something about the new reports.” There’s footsteps, quiet through the door, and Rosie knows they’re alone. Except they’re not. 

“Alright,” she says to no one, just to say something, and turns to leave. Before she can, Elias reaches out, touches her arm. 

“Hey,” he says, looking her straight in the face, “thanks.” 

His eyes are green, she can tell, even though they’re half-lidded and a little bloodshot. _What for?_ she thinks, but doesn’t ask. It’s not close enough to the surface. 

She won’t see his eyes again. 

—

The Institute’s air conditioning has been broken for the past three days. Like most of the other staff with long hair, Rosie’s been putting hers up at work, a weak attempt to combat the heat. She always puts it back down before she clocks out, though. Having her neck exposed feels… dangerous, now. Like anything might come after it. 

On the last day before the repairmen finally come, she leaves it up when she goes home. She doesn’t know why— she doesn’t like to keep it up, and the house is cool when she steps inside. 

She’s standing over the kettle on the stovetop, back to the door, when her brother comes in. “Whoa,” he says, “when’d you get _that?”_

“Get what?” She asks, looking back at him. His eyes are wide. 

“The tattoo.” 

Rosie goes very still. “Don’t tell anyone,” she says, and her voice sounds just a little strange. 

He nods, and she moves past him into the bathroom. It’s tricky, but between the wall mirror and a handheld one, she manages to get a clear view of the back of her neck. 

It’s an eye. Not realistic, not really, just a simple line drawing of an eye. Open, with stylized lashes. The pupil is blown wide. 

She takes her hair down and doesn’t think about it again. 

— 

It’s not long before Wright dies; it’s peacefully in his sleep, according to his obituary. The funeral is a private ceremony, but the office holds a small service the night they all find out. 

The interim Head— someone by the name of Lukas, Rosie buzzed him in once— gives them a week off work. By the time they come back, Elias Bouchard is the Head of the Institute. 

Rosie meets him in his new office to fill him in on any details the interim Head forgot about, to make sure he knows she’s always available to help. Somehow, though, she knows he knows. Or maybe she Knows he knows, or maybe they both Know. 

Regardless, he smiles at her, thanks her, reaches out to shake her hand. His eyes are ice-blue, and his pupils are wide. She remembers the storage closet, that strange _“he won’t.”_

Rosie lets the thoughts slide through her mind as she takes his hand. Instead, she thinks, louder than all the others, _his hands are warmer than Wright’s were._

“I’m glad you’ll be here to help, Rosie,” he says, and they both Know, and neither of them will ever say a thing. 

—

Her first girlfriend had been a filmmaker— documentaries, mostly— and sometimes she’d turn the camera on Rosie when she wasn’t paying attention, just long enough for her to notice and look up. She’d liked that kind of attention, mostly because it masqueraded as not-attention. They both knew, but neither of them had to acknowledge it. It was enough to just know. 

She knows the difference between looking and Looking now, and Elias knows she does. Still, when she feels that attention on her, like eyes staring at the back of her head, she doesn’t react, doesn’t look up. She knows how to play the game. 

Still, after the watched-feeling stops— sometimes after a few seconds, sometimes whole minutes— she always calls Elias’ office. “Just checking in,” she always says, smiling, “in case you needed anything.” 

He always needs something. She always helps. 

—

Rosie’s there when Jon gets hired, helps him settle into his desk, asks him if he needs anything. She can feel the attention strong against the back of her neck, even as Jon shuffles things around and mumbles something about being _fine, thank you._

When Gertrude dies and Jon is promoted almost instantly, she isn’t surprised. She helps him settle into his new office, too, regardless. Then she goes back to the front desk, and makes phone calls and schedules appointments and directs nervous statement-givers downstairs, and waits for him to notice the eye on the back of his neck blinking open. 

(His eyes stay the same, at least. She’s thankful for the little things, these days.)

**Author's Note:**

> I inhaled all of TMA over the past two weeks, which means now I have to write niche genfic. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments appreciated, as always. :)


End file.
